“I cannot call. Voicemail.”
She smiled at my English and patted my shoulder. “How do you want to do this?”
For once, English wasn’t the issue. The words I wanted to use didn’t come easily, even if I’d rehearsed for weeks — months — what I would say if she knocked on my door, or picked up the phone.
I brainstormed in a frustrated silence until I hoped I had covered everything. Marnie stayed silent, supporting me at my side.
Even when my fists curled as I tried to think of English phrases that encompassed how I felt, my brain got stuck in circles.
After scribbling down five or so sentences, I huffed a sigh and wrote in Hungarian.
Independently, I tried to translate. We hadn’t done any work on reading and writing yet, so I spoke it through to Marnie, getting twisted with the pronunciation of words that looked similar and gripping the table hard.
She offered to write it for me, but that wasn’t the point. They needed to be my words.
We compromised and put a draft through the translating app, looking over why some things didn’t make sense. Marnie said it was still a good task to help with my accuracy, and when she read through my finished project, she smiled and tapped me on the back. “This is excellent, Zoltán. You’ve come so far.”
I nodded, surprised that the words warmed my chest and cheeks. I wanted to believe them, but couldn’t.
I read through my letter once more, knowing it was my lastchance and how much I really wanted it to be excellent.
For weeks, I’d wanted to address everything and make her life easier.
This letter, with no action, was meaningless. It was just badly translated words.
I had to do more. She might not open the letter. I wouldn’t blame her.
And the letter wouldn’t help her.
Marnie promised to keep it a secret with our pinkies intertwined and left after a tight hug.
The second she was out the door, I texted my publicist.
ZOLTÁN: I’m going to do it. Sorry.
DEREK: Let’s talk it through first. Don’t do anything rash.
But I didn’t reply, because I placed my phone on the kitchen side and pressed record.
33
Chapter 33
Fia
Jordan sat in our university library, headphones in, writing up a case report for his portfolio in a thin t-shirt. No matter how many dark-wood shelves lined the panelled walls, the high ceilings and old, rickety windows always made it feel cold. I’d brought a blanket in my rucksack as I always did, and when the few other early risers looked over with a judgemental stare at how I’d wrapped myself up in it, Jordan narrowed his eyes at them, daring them to comment.
I didn’t care. They could think what they wanted. I was nice and cosy, wearing gloves as I researched on my laptop. Having to restart my placement meant I also had to rewrite my previous assignments.
Not that I was doing that. I was deep in Zoltán’s reports.
I researched name after name, cross-checking them against other files, other patients they had.
Cross-checking names from both reports, especially anything tied to Benedek Farkas.
Names were easy to trace in the file.
But so much of the English translation felt…rushed. Sloppy.
